


Epiphany

by salakavala



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull struggles with feelings, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13025565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: It's not that he doesn't want Dorian after, because he does. It's just that he's not what Dorian needs.





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Margo_Kim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/gifts).



> Romantically challenged Bull ahead! I hope you'll find this to your liking. Happy holidays!

They arrive in the Arbour Wilds two days later than intended, and Cadash is pissed.

It's not that bad, considering they can't do much anyway until the rest of Gaspard's forces arrive with the heavy equipment, but the boss is miffed anyway; to her, being late means not being in control of herself and her people, and it's been pretty clear for a while now that the sense of control is what has kept her sane for the past weeks. She grows more sour every hour that they are not in the main camp of their army. It gets better when they run into Red Templar scouts or rifts, because then she gets to channel her frustration in a productive way, but then, if they didn't constantly keep running into enemies, they wouldn't be so late.

No one else in their party looks like they are heading to a good battle either. Dorian's so lost in his thoughts that he barely sees where he's going, and every time Cole opens his mouth he starts a little and then looks relieved when it's just about some baby squirrel who's lost his mother or something. Cole himself is restless and jittery, his instinct or whatever it is catching on every living creature in their vicinity. It's creepy, but it has its uses, because near the evening Cole accidentally reveals a bandit ambush ahead by prattling about some outlaw's hidden fears. When the outlaws attack, they stand even less chance than usual.

“Why do they keep attacking?” Cadash yells as she disposes of the last bandit. “ _Why do they keep attacking?_ I'm the only sodding thing standing between them and the end of this sorry world!” She angrily wipes her blade on the bandit's tunic and then kicks the corpse.

“Darkness,” Cole answers, “Nothing. Anything to drown mother's tears-”

“I don't want to hear,” Cadash snaps at him. “Do you hear me, Cole? I don't want to hear. I don't care. Corypheus' army is somewhere in these woods, and we're late, and I don't give one flying fuck about some sod's bad life choices.”

If the Bull was still reporting to someone, this would be why he was sent to join the Inquisition in the first place. His superiors wanted to know about the Breach, yeah, but it was just as important to keep an eye on a sudden new military power and its leader. Should the Inquisitor get a little too ambitious, or should she threaten to fall apart under her title, the people at Qunandar would want to know. A power like she is a hazard. The Bull's not reporting to anyone any more though, so he keeps his observations to himself. The pressure's getting to her, to Cadash. She's been courting a breaking point for a time now, especially since the crap in the Fade, and the longer the fight continues, the thinner her mental endurance stretches. Lately, the Bull's not been just keeping an eye out for her. He's also been keeping an eye out for _her_.

“Hey, Cole,” he says, when Cadash turns away to check the outlaw's pack for potions, “Maybe don't dive into every bandit's head from now on?”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Cole answers, looking sad. “It makes them someone. The wounded young man on the tavern floor, but found by the wrong man.”

“Look, kid, don't make it weird. _Weirder_.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull.”

“You say that now,” says Dorian, checking his staff for any blood stains – he'd done the thing where a guy blows up from the inside, and it always gets messy. “But I bet that in a moment's time one of us is driving you out of our heads with a broomstick.”

“But you don't have a broomstick, Dorian,” Cole says, his genuine puzzlement making it even better. Dorian sends a baleful look at the Bull when he laughs. “Yes yes, very funny, the spoilt altus has never touched a broomstick in his life. Now can we all move on?”

It's a perfect slot for a quip about Dorian handling other sticks pretty well, and it's on the tip of the Bull's tongue, but he thinks better of it and the words get tangled in his teeth. All he gets out is a weird little gurgle of laughter.

Dorian glances at him and quickly away again, like he heard the quip anyway.

“Moving on,” Cadash announces, and, glancing at the reddening sky, adds, “Double time.”

Dorian turns and goes after her. Cole’s head turns after him, curious, like a puppy sniffing a squirrel.

“Trying, but it’s not the same. Words left unsaid, a curtain between now and then.”

Dorian turns to him, annoyed. The Bull, walking behind them, is presented with his profile. “Oh, for-- Cole, what did I just say?”

Cole’s frowning a little, trying to understand what’s going on in Dorian’s head. The Bull belatedly slows his pace to give at least an illusion of privacy, but he hears Cole’s answer anyway. “Wishing but wondering, wounded but wistful. You wish you had a broomstick now, Dorian.”

Dorian utters a funny mixture of a snarl and a laughter, but it dies in his throat when Cole looks at him and says, softly, “What if he doesn’t want me after?”

Dorian’s next step falters just slightly, and the Bull can practically feel the effort with which Dorian staples his eyes on Cole. “Cole, for the sake of Andraste and all her beloved, _k_ _eep_ _o_ _ut_ _of my head_ _._ ”

He quickens his pace to catch up with the boss. Cole doesn't follow, and the Bull wishes he hadn't heard any of it. It's not his place to. It never was.

Cole turns his puzzled eyes at him. “But it's not that. It’s not about not wanting him.”

There's an unpleasant twist in the Bull's stomach. “Yeah, hey, uh. Better leave the guy alone.”

“Yes, The Iron Bull,” Cole says for the third fucking time, and because he’s a demon, he has to add, sadly, “Back to being fantastic all on my own.”

He sprints forward, light on his feet, and disappears from the road ahead of Dorian and Cadash, leaving the Bull to keep rear.

Pity the bandits are all dead. He could use an excuse to hit something right now.

.

They haven't left the main camp since they finally got there. Some units have been sent out, mainly scouts, but also reinforcement groups for other, smaller camps the Inquisition holds in the area. Cadash herself remains at the main camp, arguing strategy with Cullen and Gaspard even as all the experience she has in that field is commanding a dozen smugglers. She wants to participate, too restless to stand by and have nothing to focus on.

The Bull's kinda restless too. He knows that some units have clashed with the Red Templars already, and he's never liked sitting put while others are fighting. But he's not a foot soldier – he's the Inquisitor's bodyguard and her personal weapon to wield, and he'll be put to use when it's his time. For now, he's got time to oil his axe, see if he can find a screw for his ankle brace to replace the one he lost on the way through the Wilds, and maybe mend the frayed seam on his boot. Plenty of stuff to occupy himself with.

He heads for the blacksmith's work tent, first, to ask about the screw, but just as he's reaching for the tent flap, it opens and Dorian strides out, staff in hand.

“ _Fasta_ \-- Bull!” He quickly glances around, checking if anyone noticed him flailing like a spooked peacock. “You startled me. Watch where you're going, would you? You'll poke someone's eye out with one of those horns.”

The Bull doesn't bother pointing out that Dorian's nowhere near tall enough to worry about his horns. “Hey,” he greets him instead, grins a little.

Leaves it at that.

He's been meaning to find Dorian ever since they got to the camp, to make sure that they're all right. That Dorian's all right. But the camp is big, and Dorian hasn't been avoiding him, exactly, but the Bull hasn't been looking for him with the full intent, either. To let the guy have his space, that kind of thing.

But now that he's got Dorian, he's not sure what he'd even thought to say to him. The whole point of their conversation back in Skyhold that night had been to lay out everything about the matter on the spot, so there would be no chance of misunderstanding, no need to drag it out and talk about it afterwards. He had explained himself to the best of his ability, and Dorian had listened to him, and nodded, and agreed, and left with a smile. There really isn’t need to return to all that now.

Good thing that Dorian can be counted on to never run out of words. “If you're looking for the blacksmith, I've been told that she's out in search of a decent lunch,” he informs the Bull, like he hasn't noticed his hesitance. “Which, based on my own very similar experience, will take a good while. You'll find her apprentices inside, but I do feel compelled to warn you – wait for the master herself to arrive if you require anything more inventive than a tightened screw.” He glances back into the tent. “The apprentice's own words, not mine.”

There’s nothing in Dorian’s behaviour to indicate that anything’s changed between them; they're clearly back to the comrades-in-arms they were before, only without the Vint versus Qun bullshit. It should be good, and yet the Bull can’t help feeling a bit like when he’d lost his eye – when he’d realised how much two eyes could see now that he only had one.

“Good thing I only need that screw,” he jokes.

Dorian gives him a slightly lopsided smile, and goes. The Bull enters the tent.

Yeah, it's not about not wanting Dorian after, he thinks as one of the apprentices rummages through his toolboxes in search of a fitting screw. Because he does. Even now, after the ‘after’. But it would have been unfair to Dorian to let it go on. Dorian had seemed to follow the same lines about sex as the Bull, and they had agreed on rules, but the Bull should have known that the rules often got blurred. No: the Bull had _seen_ that the rules had got blurred, he’d blurred them himself. He'd felt the change, but he hadn't given enough weight to it, because he'd been selfish, because he'd enjoyed it. _Hope that this has been good for you,_ he'd said that night, on impulse, when Dorian had languidly stretched on his bed, and it’s a good thing that Dorian had answered the way he had, or the Bull probably wouldn't have even realised in what kind of crap he'd made Dorian step.

You _have_ , _Bull._

It had been the sincerity of it that had allowed the Bull to see what’d been hidden behind those words. Had made him realise that he’s not able to give Dorian what he needs, or wants. There is no romance under the Qun.

 _Of course,_ Dorian had said, _A Ben-Hassrath agent and a Tevinter mage? Preposterous._

 _Back to being fantastic all on my own,_ he’d said.

It's good. Dorian will find someone who will do right by him. It's the way it should be.

The screw that the apprentice finds him is a bit rusty, but it's okay. It fits just fine.

.

The Bull spots Dorian again in the evening, when it's dark already and the soldiers are pulling out the ale while the serving girls and boys are clearing away the empty pots and bowls. Men are gathering around fires in groups of varying sizes, and the Bull, having found himself a more or less comfortable spot at one of the fires, detects Dorian at another a little further away. He hasn't noticed the Bull. Or just doesn't want to. Fair, the Bull thinks, and drinks.

Someone's brought a lute along; that fire attracts more people. There's general good mood everywhere: the Fereldan, Orlaisian, and Inquisition soldiers trade stories, laugh, occasionally rise to a rowdy song that sometimes attracts lone voices from surrounding fires as well. It's the sort of nervous merriment that arises before battles, the fear of death and certainty of victory entwined into the kind of companionship that the Bull's observed only in war. Now, they drink to themselves. Tomorrow, they fight for the world. Tomorrow, they die for the Inquisitor.

The dozen men at the nearby fire all burst out laughing at the same time. Dorian's laughing, too, holding a mug of ale of his own; his teeth flash white against the darkness as he laughs. He, too, is channelling his fear into ale and flirting. He laughs with them like he's one of them, even as he won't see them after tonight. Today, they are Jero with bad puns, Crud with crooked teeth, Linna with more interest in the plantlife than in fighting Corypheus. Tomorrow they'll be nameless faces, identical in their soldier's uniforms. They won't think to seek Dorian out even if they make it out of the battle alive, and when it’s over, Dorian will ride ahead with Cadash and Cole and the Bull, and not look back.

One of the men – Jero, the Bull thinks – keeps real close to Dorian, has been checking him out ever since the bottles were dug out. Dorian doesn't look like he minds. He drinks his ale, and laughs with his white teeth, and lets Jero's hand rest on his bare shoulder. They wander off a little later, in the middle of a song, out of the camp.

Dorian deserves someone to take care of him, the Bull thinks, turns his mug over for the last drops. Someone to love him. It's not what Dorian needs, because Dorian's strong and can take care of himself. But it's what Dorian wants. And the Bull wants-- Dorian to have it. Jero is a decent guy, he's got a wild sense of humour, just the kind to make Dorian groan in despair, and he's deft with his hands, for what the Bull's seen him whittling. Yeah, he'll be worth Dorian’s time, tonight.

But he won't want him after.

.

They get back to Skyhold well ahead of the rest of the Inquisition forces, because no one expected the jump through a magic fucking mirror that would somehow take them across half of Thedas like it's nothing. The boss heads straight to the war room with her advisors and the smug witch to disappear there for days, and the rest of them are left to their own devices.

For all that the Bull's rarely found himself idle before, there doesn’t seem to be much to do. Their army will take time to return, and the Bull's boys are out on a mission, so Skyhold feels unusually quiet, waiting. He's got no reports to write, either, not since the extermination of his ties with the Qun, and he feels the loss of it the most acutely now. He hangs out in the tavern with Varric, spars with Blackwall and Cassandra, takes tea with Vivienne when she wants a little favour done for her, and doesn't see much of Dorian.

It's a bit unsettling to notice how large a part Dorian had occupied in his life, before the Bull had put an end to it. No, that’s wrong – it's unsettling that the Bull only realises _now_ how large a part Dorian had occupied. Not only in person, but always in some corner of his consciousness, constant in varying intensity, and even in his absence he keeps doing it. The tides come and go; Dorian's just there.

“Come on, Tiny,” Varric says to him, sliding the coins to his side of table from the Bull's. “Just go see him before you make me richer than the Merchant's Guild.”

“You're already richer than the Merchant's Guild,” the Bull answers, but doesn't bother to pretend. Varric's observant and clever, and it's no surprise that he’s noticed.

Dorian's probably in his nook in the library, trying his damnest to find some trace of information about the Well of Sorrows and tossing books around in frustration when they refuse to provide it to him. The Bull hasn't been there since he told Dorian he's unable to love him. Hasn't even passed it, because since the Storm Coast Red's got less business to discuss with him.

It hasn't changed. There's still the little round table with piles of books stacked on it, still the chair that Dorian had dragged there – to serve as an additional surface for books, Dorian had claimed, but it had always been conveniently empty every time the Bull had visited his little kingdom. And there's still Dorian.

But he’s not throwing around books. He's wrapping up a conversation with some guy the Bull doesn't recall seeing in Skyhold before. Just as the Bull makes it to the top of the landing, the man bows to Dorian, and, with an absent nod to the Bull, walks past him to the stairs.

“Bull,” Dorian says with surprise, but his face melts into a warm smile that he quickly schools into a merely polite one. The result looks a little conflicted, but it's not the Bull's place to call him out on it. “On your way to see our mysterious spymaster?”

“No, I thought I'd...” Bad start. The Bull nods at the staircase, where the man's steps still echo. “Who was that?”

Dorian hesitates a little, and when he speaks, the Bull gets a feeling it's not what he first intended to say. “A ship captain,” he answers with a shrug. “I've been fortunate to catch one here.”

“Pretty far from sea,” the Bull remarks lamely. He wants to ask why Dorian wanted to talk with a ship captain, but, for one, it's pretty obvious, and second, the Bull is struck with a reluctance to hear it.

He glances at the chair beside the table. It's still free of books, so he sits on it.

“Come now, I’m certain even ship captains crave the fresh mountain air from time to time. In spite of the perpetual risk of frostbite.” Dorian’s smile dims a little, and he turns sideways to the Bull, to fuss with a bundle of notes on the little table. They rustle in a familiar way when he flips through them, a sound that the Bull has come to associate with long, languid evenings with wine and conversation and quiet sighs of slow pleasure.

Dorian sighs now, too, and while it’s quiet, it’s also resigned in a way the Bull doesn’t like to hear. “We agreed on one extra passenger on his ship. When this is all done.”

It’s not a surprise. Most of them joined the Inquisition to see the asshole magister’s ass kicked, not to find a new home somewhere in the middle of drafty corridors and warm people. From the start they joined with the intention of leaving. The Bull hasn’t much dwelt on what that means to him, now, but he used to talk about it with Dorian often enough to know what it means to Dorian.

“That captain taking sails as soon as Corypheus is dead?” The truth won’t change even if he doesn’t say it aloud, but still he can’t bring himself to put it in words. Let him keep this one illusion, even as he’s been letting go all the others. “Or..?”

Dorian’s hands still on the piece of paper he has been smoothing with his palms. “As soon as Corypheus is dead,” he answers after a while. Picks up a book, opens it at random. Disinterested in the whole conversation, if his appearance could be believed without reserve. Keeper of illusions, the Bull thinks, if he ever saw one. But the thought sits ill in his stomach, so he doesn’t think about it, either.

Dorian says softly, “Or I am.”

The Bull looks sharply up. The words sting like a wasp in the brain – sharp, paralysing, unexpected. Dorian’s tone hasn’t changed; he flips a page. “In which case I’ll be an urn travelling. Admittedly cheaper than a full cabin, but less preferable all the same. I do so love a long sea voyage. But -” He puts the book down, picks another, opens it from the last page. “- I suppose it’s not an entirely terrible alternative: a pariah, standing against all expectations to defeat evil, and, in so doing, perishes with appropriate dramatics, thus earning his redemption.” He cracks a smile. “A classic tale. Just ask Varric.”

It’s out before the Bull can think – the word. It’s out, and he sees how Dorian flinches when it hits him, all poise dropping at once.

_Come on! What’s the worst that can happen? Death? Can’t be that bad, never heard a corpse complaining._

Vasaad hadn’t complained either. Had just lied still, eyes staring out like they still saw the archer whose arrow had pierced his throat. The blood was not pulsing from the wound any longer, but it was everywhere, mixing with his red vitaar, filling the Bull’s vision until it was all red, red, red.

It’s blinding in its sudden clarity, and it shakes the Bull to the very core: Dorian can die. Dorian _expects_ to die.

And the Bull, with the entirety of his being, with every last fibre of his body and the darkest corner of his mind where he’s still holding Vasaad’s body-- knows: Dorian’s death is not an option.

He feels heavy, suddenly – his tongue too thick to answer the alarm in Dorian’s eyes, his mind too numb to speak. He feels himself sagging on the chair a little, only that one thought holding him together: Dorian’s death is not an option.

“Bull?” Dorian looks afraid that he’s broken him. _You haven’t_ , the Bull wants to tell him, but he can’t answer to Dorian in any verbal way. He can only extend his hand towards him, not knowing how to say, _You could have died and not known that I love you._ Because the Bull had told him so himself, to Dorian’s face, too blinded by his own beliefs to see that they were nothing more than an illusory veil that he chose to hide behind, because an unmoving truth is easier than having to admit to something he’s been taught not to want.

Dorian could have died. If he had, the Bull’s heart would have stopped beating, and he wouldn’t even have known why _._

Dorian hesitates a little, but takes his hand, and the Bull gently pulls him in so that Dorian stands between his legs. He wraps his arms around Dorian and lowers his forehead on Dorian’s chest, over his heart to feel its anxious drumming.

Dorian remains still at first, then apparently realises that the Bull isn’t about to let go and wiggles his arms free from where they were trapped between their bodies. He places one hand on the Bull’s shoulder; the other, after a brief hesitance, strokes the base of his horn. His touch is grounding – the Bull’s vaguely aware of the sounds of everyday life around them, the occasional caw of Red’s crows, the quiet discussion between Helisma and Fiona on the other side of the library, the absent muttering of the elven bookkeeper in a nook nearby – but all that is sinking back into the fog. All his awareness centres on Dorian, on the rise and fall of his chest, on his solid form in the Bull’s arms. He listens to the rhythm of Dorian’s heart and hears the reassurance in its every beat – _I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._

For now.

Dorian can die. Dorian can live, and stay in Skyhold, or go and unleash such a storm upon Tevinter that she has never seen, the past blights notwithstanding.

And Dorian will do it because he chooses so. Not because the Bull withholds his feelings from him. Not because of what the Bull thinks he needs or wants or doesn’t. What will or will not affect Dorian’s decisions is not the Bull’s to determine – it’s Dorian’s alone. All that the Bull can do is to make sure that Dorian lives to carry out his choices. That he’ll do so knowing that there’s a hollow within the Bull’s chest, and it’s just for him if he ever chooses to settle there.

“Bull,” Dorian repeats softly, not quite a question, and the Bull feels his voice dispel some of the fog weighing him down, enough for him to remember words again.

“We’re coming out of this alive,” he makes himself say, because he needs it to be true. _Together_ , his brain supplies. _Together,_ _–_

The fingers come to a halt at the base of his horn, and he feels the cool brush of Dorian’s quiet “ah” on the back of his head. The Bull breathes slowly in and out, focuses on the press of Dorian’s buckles against his arms, on his heartbeat. The word burns on his tongue, and he knows that Dorian won’t understand it, but he-- _he_ needs to say it. He needs to let Dorian know.

So he does.

Dorian doesn’t ask. His hand rests at the base of the Bull’s horn, still, unmoving. His breathing is steady, his heart is frantic like a bird locked in a cage.

He hasn’t asked, but the Bull tells him anyway.

*


End file.
